Or would I soon lose the home—and the community—I cherished more than anything?
I was putting the roast into the oven when the kitchen door opened and Gwen walked in. She dropped her bag with a thud and sank into one of the kitchen chairs, cradling her head in her hands.
My own worries took a back seat as I closed the oven door and sat down across from my niece. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said tonelessly. I sat quietly, waiting. After a long moment, she said, “All right, I do know. Maybe I’m not cut out to be an artist.”
Not cut out to be an artist? I couldn’t think of anyone more suited to the profession. Talent, discipline … she had both in spades. “What happened?”
“Herb Munger came by the studio today. He hated my new canvases,” she said. “I have to start all over again.”
“What??? But the show’s in less than a week.”
“I know.”
“What did he say was wrong with them?”
“He says I’ve ‘lost the delicacy of my earlier work’,” she said, adding air quotes. I could see her anger in the set of her jaw. “Well, when he tells me to paint oils on 3x5-foot canvases, of course they’re not going to have the delicacy of a small watercolor!”
“Sounds reasonable to me. What does Fernand say?” I asked, scratching at the skin around my engagement ring absently. I was beginning to wonder if I was developing some kind of weird allergy to metal; I’d never reacted to jewelry the way I did to the ring John had given me.
“I don’t know,” she said miserably, the anger fading. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. He’s been locked in his office most of the time for the past week. Worried about that Zelda Chu woman, probably.”
“Maybe you just need a break,” I suggested. “You’ve been pushing yourself awfully hard lately.”
She looked up. “A break? You’re kidding. The show is days away, and I have no canvases. How can I possibly take a break?”
“What about all your other work?” I asked. “The watercolors? The one you did of the dock is absolutely beautiful. And the piece you did for the inn brochure …”
“They won’t work,” she said miserably. “He told me they needed to be bigger.”
“I don’t understand. If he wanted big oil paintings, why did he ask you?” I foolishly wondered aloud.
“Maybe it was a favor to Fernand,” she said bitterly. “Since obviously I suck as an artist.” On that note, she pushed her chair back with a jerk and ran up the stairs, slamming her door behind her.
I sat staring after her, regretting my poor choice of words and wishing I’d known what to say. John would have a better handle on how to help her, I thought; as an artist, he understood the challenges better than I did. I picked up the phone to call him, but then put it back down. I didn’t want to tell him about the mortgage problem yet—not until I had it worked out. No need to worry him on his trip to Portland.
With a heavy heart, I rinsed a dozen fingerling potatoes and tossed them with sea salt and olive oil, glancing at the Currier and Ives scene outside my window. Maybe a good dinner and a night of sleep would help Gwen. After all, things usually looked better in the morning. I hoped the same would apply for me, too; the mortgage worry was pressing on me like a load of bricks. I’d called the attorney’s office twice more, but the receptionist had been less than helpful. And I was getting nowhere with the mortgage companies.
Outside, dusk was falling, and the world had softened to shades of blue and gray. Fat flakes of snow floated down, some of them sticking to the window briefly, then melting against the pane. It was a fantasy world outside—a perfect stage for the Snow Queen, or maybe the Sugar Plum Fairy. I’d always wondered what sugar plums tasted like; maybe I’d find a recipe and cook some up for Christmas, I thought idly. I was about to turn and reach for a pan when a flash of movement caught my eye.
I leaned forward, peering through the window. There was someone out there, walking among the trees.
Abandoning the potatoes, I crossed the short distance to the outside door and stepped out onto the stoop. The sharp, cold air pierced my thin sweater. “Hello!” I called.
No one answered, but I heard the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow and receding into the woods. I scanned the driveway; my truck was the only vehicle. Whoever it was had come here on foot. I scanned the trees, but saw no other movement. “Hello!” I called again. Nobody answered. After a long moment, I stepped back inside and slid the dead bolt home, suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
_____
Seal Point Road was lined with cars—or what passed for cars here on Cranberry Island—when I arrived at Fernand’s gallery next evening with a tray of mini quiches. I closed the van door behind me and wrapped my scarf more tightly around my chin; fat white flakes were whirling down, covering everything in a thick blanket of white. Beautiful as it was, the snow was making getting around a real challenge; I was glad Ernie White, the only person on the island with a snow plow, had plowed the roads before the party. As it was, I hoped he would plow again before it was time to go home.
Fernand’s studio and gallery, a yellow wood-framed house with lavender shutters and pale blue trim, had been decked out for Christmas with icicle lights and balls of colored lights that hung from the spruce trees outside like giant balls of sparkling yarn. Electric candles burned in the windows, reflecting warmly against the snow, and an enormous balsam wreath graced the door. I caught a whiff of cinnamon and apples, and felt my spirits rise despite the worry that had gnawed at me all day.
The inside of the gallery was just as festive as the outside, with softly glowing Christmas lights festooning the open rafters. Along with candles scattered around the well-stocked buffet (where I spotted what I hoped was an enormous bowl of lobster salad) and on the tables Fernand had set up around the room, they were the only source of light, and the warm glow was magical. My eyes were drawn to an enormous balsam fir in the corner, decorated with hundreds of lights and bright red glass balls. I took a deep, appreciative breath; I could smell the fresh scent of balsam mingling with the cinnamon and cloves of the mulled cider.
“Natalie! What did you bring?” Fernand wove his way through the crowd of islanders toward me, looking remarkably relaxed for
the host of a big party. As usual, he was impeccably turned out, this time in a pair of slacks and a festive red sweater with a starched collared shirt peeking out. The light glinted off his steel-rimmed glasses, and his hands, as usual, still bore faint traces of paint. He peeked under the foil and groaned. “Tell me those aren’t mini quiches.”
“They are.”
“I’ll gain ten pounds!” he said in his clipped Canadian accent.
I grinned at him. “No you won’t. You never do.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” he said.
I laughed. “Great party. Looks like the whole island’s here.”
“Everyone except the guest of honor,” he said ruefully. “And John,” he added. “Still at continuing ed?”
“He’ll be back the day after tomorrow, but he’s sorry to miss it,” I said. “Where’s Gwen?”
“She helped me set up,” he said. “She’s with Adam, talking with one of the gallery owners from Mount Desert Island. They’re talking about doing a show in the summer—best time to do it, with the tourists in town. That girl is going places.” He waved toward the far corner, where Gwen, looking radiant in a deep emerald dress, was smiling and chatting with a stout, graying gentleman. She looked better than she had in days; I hoped that meant she’d had a breakthrough today.
“How’s the show coming together?” I asked.
“It’s always stressful,” he said, “and working in oils has been a challenge. I still think watercolors are her strength, but Herb Munger, for some reason, is insisting on oils. It’s not a bad idea to experiment with different media, and she’s coming along fairly well.”
“That’s not what I�
��m hearing at home. She thinks she needs to start over.”
He waved the idea away. “She’s got lots of things to show. Don’t worry about it. I talked with Herb a few minutes ago,” he said, indicating a tall man in plaid pants who was swilling down mulled wine in the corner. How anyone who would intentionally wear those pants could consider himself a judge of art, I had no idea. I planned to mention it to Gwen later. “He’s not an ideal patron, but everyone has to start somewhere.” Something in his expression made me hope she found a different patron sooner than later. “I’m trying to convince him to feature her watercolors.”
“Are the oils that bad?” I asked.
He sucked in his breath. “She’s still learning. It’ll come.”
Not encouraging.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here. I’m just going to go put these on the buffet. If I were you, I’d get some of the clams casino before they’re all gone.”
As he whisked the platter off toward one of the buffet tables along the back wall, I scanned the room. The lobstermen and their spouses were clustered in a corner by the window; I was happy to see Terri Bischoff and the new schoolteacher, Sara Bennett, among them, laughing at something Tom Lockhart, the tall, charismatic Cranberry Island selectman and lobster co-op chair, had said. Terri was looking good in dark slacks and a blue button-down shirt; Sara wore a red velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline that framed her heart-shaped face beautifully.
Gertrude Pickens from the Daily Mail was here, of course, flitting from person to person with a notebook and pen in her hand, as were the Winter Knitters, whose knitting needles, I was relieved to see, had been replaced by mugs of mulled wine and cider. Although I didn’t see Claudette, her son Mark was there, alongside a sleek, dark-haired woman I didn’t recognize.
“You made it!” I turned to find Charlene, dressed in a form-fitting sparkly red dress that set off her full figure to its best advantage. “And you even found a dress!” she said, looking at the rather plain green wool number I’d found in the back of the closet.
“Just about the only winter dress I own,” I said, making a mental note to go shopping next time I made it to the mainland. “You look terrific!” I said.
“You like it?” she asked.
“New dress?”
“Nah,” she said, “but it’s stretchy, so I can eat. Speaking of eating, have you visited the buffet yet?”
“No, but I was on my way,” I said. As we walked toward the groaning tables, I asked Charlene about the dark-haired woman next to Claudette’s son.
“That’s Dawn,” she said. “Claudette’s daughter-in-law.”
“That’s her daughter-in-law?” I asked. As I watched, the dark-haired woman tipped her head back into a laugh. With her black sheath dress and artfully applied red lipstick, she bore no resemblance to the wild-haired woman in sweats who had met me at Claudette’s door just a day earlier. “Far cry from the woman at Claudette’s yesterday. Her hair was out to here,” I said, holding my hands about a foot from my head, “and she didn’t even know her name.”
“I know she has some psychiatric issues,” Charlene said. “I’m not sure what, though.”
“You wouldn’t know it tonight,” I said, still trying to square the slender, fashionably dressed woman with the hollow-eyed specter I’d seen yesterday. Her husband, a stout, fortyish man with a worried look on his pink-cheeked face, stayed close; there was a nervous quality about him, as if he were expecting her to break. She was engaged in conversation with Munger, the gallery owner who was torturing my niece. He appeared to be comfortable flirting despite his awful pants. I focused on Claudette’s son Mark again. He looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Claudette and Eli weren’t in evidence; I guessed they were staying at home with the kids. Maggie hadn’t made it to the party, either, I realized as my eyes swept the room. They were quickly drawn back to Dawn, though, as she tilted her head back into a tinkling laugh. “She’s like a different person,” I said.
“There’s Zelda,” Charlene said, pointing to a stout Asian woman in the corner. The artist was dressed in black, her silver hair styled in an attractive, asymmetrical cut. She seemed to be in deep conversation with Murray Selfridge, who, as usual, looked like he’d just come off the golf course at the country club, even though it was twenty degrees outside.
“And Murray,” I said darkly. He was always plotting some big development on the island, and it made me nervous to see him conferring with Zelda. “Wonder what they’re cooking up?”
“I’ll have to ask Tom if they’ve talked to him about their plans at all,” Charlene said.
“Natalie!”
I turned to see the sharp face of Gertrude Pickens, the Daily Mail reporter.
“Gertrude,” I said, forcing a smile. The reporter had never been kind to the inn, and seemed always to be looking for a reason to give me more bad press. “How are you?”
“Better than you are, I hear,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked frostily, feeling a trickle of ice water down my spine.
“I understand there’s some trouble with a mortgage company,” she said, with a predatory smile.
FIVE
MY EYES FLICKED TO Charlene, who shook her head almost imperceptibly, widening her eyes.
“Oh?” I said, as coolly as I could. “Where did you hear that?”
“I never reveal my sources,” she said, poising her pen over her notebook. “Now, is it true that you just received a foreclosure notice on the inn?” she asked.
“I don’t see how the inn’s financial business is any business of yours,” I said.
“Oh, so it is true,” she said, jotting busily away.
“I didn’t say that,” I protested.
“What happened? Business dry up with the economy?”
“If you’ll excuse us, Gertrude,” Charlene said, grabbing my arm, “this is a social gathering, and we are on our way to the buffet.”
“How long do you have to pay before the bank takes over?” she called out as Charlene pulled me past her through the crowd. I felt my breath come in short spurts.
“Ignore her,” Charlene said.
“I’d like to, but she’s making it difficult. Maybe I should buy her a bullhorn for Christmas.”
“She seems to be doing fine without it,” Charlene muttered.
“How did she find out?” I asked. “You and I were the only ones there when we talked about it.”
“Eli was there,” she said.
“Eli? Do you really think he said something to someone?”
“Of course not. But who else would have known?”
I thought of Eli, who had been my friend since I came to the island. He hadn’t said anything to me about the letter. Would he really tell Gertrude about the inn’s financial troubles? I didn’t want to believe it. But someone had said something. Which meant my private problems were about to become very public. As in front-page-of-the-local-paper public.
Charlene sighed. “Who knows how she found out? But now that she does, you can bet it’ll be all over the island even before it hits the Daily Mail.” She grabbed a paper plate and handed it to me. “Eat. It’ll make you feel better.”
I had lost my appetite, but I took the plate anyway, glancing over my shoulder and half-expecting to see Gertrude standing behind me with her notebook. Instead, she was making a beeline toward the door; the local celebrity had arrived.
Nina Torrone was dressed much as she had been last time we met—right down to the sunglasses and the pillbox hat. Mortimer Gladstone stood beside her in a capacious double-breasted suit with a red scarf tossed artfully around his neck; it picked up the color of his nose capillaries quite well, I thought. His arm was slung protectively around the young artist, and there was something in the possessiveness that struck me as odd. A murmur traveled through the assembly of guests, and my eyes were drawn to Fernand. His eyes were narrowed; he looked almost as if he were trying to recall something. Then the expression wa
s wiped clean, and he smiled and stepped forward to greet his guests.
“She really is young,” Charlene said after polishing off a bacon-wrapped shrimp. “I can’t believe she makes a half million dollars a painting.”
“Have you seen any of her work?” I asked.
“I looked it up the other day. It’s abstract stuff—nothing I’d hang in my living room.” She reached for another shrimp. “You should eat a few of these before they’re gone—they’re really good.”
“I will,” I said, still watching Fernand, who was now in conversation with the pair from New York. Although Nina wasn’t saying much; it seemed the agent was the talker of the two. Gwen sidled up a moment later, extending a slender hand toward the young artist. She took my niece’s hand quickly, gave it a perfunctory shake, and then dropped it as if she’d been burned.
“Try the crab dip,” Charlene said, handing me a chip laden with gooey, cheesy sauce.
“Just a second,” I said, still watching. Fernand was speaking now, directing his comments to Nina. Gladstone’s eyes darted to the side; then he stepped forward, directly between Fernand and Nina. Abruptly, he took her arm and guided her toward the buffet—and right into Gertrude.
“Gertrude Pickens, Daily Mail,” Gertrude trumpeted, her eyes gleaming. “So exciting to have a celebrity on the island!” she cooed, loudly enough that I could hear her over the hum of voices. “What inspired you to retreat to the coast of Maine?” I moved closer, leaving Charlene to the crab dip.
As always, Gladstone stepped up to answer the question. “Ms. Torrone appreciates solitude. And privacy,” he said, stressing the last word.
Brush with Death Page 4